uois, whose old mother
lies in everlasting sleep near here, protected us and provided for us.
The hills around are hallowed in my memory, and these trees seem to
stand with grace and beauty. This shore is as sacred to my mind as those
of the Jordan were to the people of old. Here! yes here! how often have
I communed with my loving Saviour! This ground is sacred to me because
it incloses the dust of the mother of my protector. The ashes of old
Margaret Guidon repose here. Is this sacred ground soon to claim the
dust of her loving son? It may be that both came here to live for a
brief space and then to die and mingle their ashes with this Acadian
soil."

Tears streamed down over her beautiful waxen features, as Mrs. Fowler
and little Mag assisted her to her feet. No penitent at a Methodist
revival-service ever looked more serious than did Jim Newall, as
Margaret Godfrey uttered the above.

Margaret had at length sufficiently recovered to proceed to the wigwam,
assisted on either side by little Mag and Mrs. Fowler. The three walked
slowly toward the home of Paul Guidon. Arriving at the entrance of the
wigwam the little Chipewayan led the way inside.

The first object that met the eyes of Mrs. Godfrey was the sick Indian
lying, wasted and emaciated, on a bed of spruce-boughs covered with a
blanket.

Margaret Godfrey at once knelt at his bed-side and placing his dark thin
hand in that of her own, said "Dear Paul, I come to see you."

He looked up at her and stared in a sort of vacant manner. He tried to
raise his head, but was too weak to do so. She looked straight in his
eyes, and said again, "Paul, you remember your old pale-faced friend who
used to live at Grimross Neck?" As Margaret spoke the last word, Paul
Guidon faintly whispered, "Thank Great Chief, I told him get you come
me, Paul must not be made die till you come." Great tears rolled down
his sunken cheeks as he whispered the above, and Margaret Godfrey,
overpowered with emotion, lightly rested her forehead on his thin sinewy
arm. Not a step. Not a sound was heard for a few minutes within the
narrow circle of the wigwam, all rested as if in silent prayer, a more
touching, a more peaceful, a more solemn scene, was never witnessed in
palace or cottage. Deep grief, real sorrow, took full possession of
those women who knelt around the bed of the dying Iroquois, in that
birchen home on the banks of the St John, on the morning of September
the 20th, 1784.

There